


Years and Years

by orphan_account



Category: Shades of Magic - V. E. Schwab
Genre: Background Kell/Lilla, Birthdays, Character Study, F/M, Heavy Angst, Holland trying to deal with life, Hope, Implied Holland/Kell, Kell being a decent person, M/M, No Apologies, Sadness, The Danes are diabolical, White London, tragic past, you're in for a ride
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-20 16:46:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20678639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "A few mistakes ago, Holland was a good man."A collection of Holland's birthdays.





	1. Chapter 1

A few mistakes ago, Holland was a good man.

Athos finds it hard to believe when Holland says it—screams it is more precise. He has his forehead pressed against the cold wall, blood puddling at his polished boots. Athos carves into his back, lazily making patterns, as if Holland were just one large canvas, instead of a person. And instead of a paintbrush, Athos picked up a knife.

Holland thinks he would have liked to be an artist. But he would’ve probably ended up being the one hanging on a gallery somewhere.

He can imagine himself, the Dane’s artwork finally on display. Forever hung in death’s embrace. Yes, he thinks. He would have liked that. He would have deserved it.

“Tell me more,” Athos purrs, twisting the knife, and Holland bites his lip to keep from crying out. The rune on his chest burns, and Holland waits for the day that he’ll go so far off the line, that the mark will set him on fire right there.

“Tell me,” Athos repeats, harsher this time. And what choice does he have but to obey?

…

He remembers Talya’s hands on him. The feeling is faded now, not sharp like Astrid’s nails digging into his skin. He remembers standing with her at the river, her voice like silk, telling him a tale that would never come true.

He remembers being afraid. When he held her, he held her too tightly, and when he kissed her it was a little too hard. As much as he missed her while he was out, he was afraid to go home out of fear that she wouldn’t be there.

And then one day, she wasn’t. It was his birthday the day after he killed her. He remembers carving lines into his arms for a blood spell that he didn’t know. Something that would bring her back. He turned twenty-seven that night, but it hardly mattered. Somehow, he already knew that the next few years would escape him. His entire life would.

He bled and bled. Blood on the wooden floor, around his boots. There wasn’t enough of him. There never would be. Not enough to save Talya, or White London, or himself.

Maybe, he thought, as he finally let himself cry, there would be enough tears.

…

He still believed he was a good man, when he was with Talya. When he felt her lips on his neck, or her hands under his shirt, he didn’t know what he had done to deserve it. As it turned out, he hadn’t deserved it at all.

But he knew that he deserved every challenge Ros Vortalis threw at him. He even came to enjoy those little games. Each life he took only helped strengthen his own. It was then that Holland realized what he would have to do to survive. What he had been doing and would do for the rest of his life.

There was no room for a good man in White London.

Holland stopped trying. He took his place at Vortalis’s side, a servant to his king and home. Vortalis had a nice laugh, one sweet and rich like cider. It was a perfect match to Holland’s solemn smile.

So, it began. Until that ended as well. It ended with Athos’ laugh and Astrid’s knife, and Holland’s mark. This is where he belonged, Holland thought on those first days. This was his punishment for killing Ros Vortalis. The Danes had gotten their hands on his body and his mind, and their influence sunk deep into where knives couldn’t reach.

He learned to change his voice into something dull and quiet. He didn’t sound like himself, and he didn’t think he looked like himself either. When Alox came to visit him in dreams, his brother couldn’t recognize him. Holland was too covered in blood and sin. 

He visited Red London a few times, intoxicated by it’s smells and life and magic. It had always infuriated him, but now Holland couldn’t stand the sight of it. After conversing with the king and queen, Holland found a quiet place to sit. He closed his eyes for a very long time.

When he returned and gave the Danes his report, they started laughing. Their laughs were like nothing he’d ever heard, the sound was sharp and brutal like the two of them. Holland had to resist the urge to scream at the noise.

Athos raked his nails across his cheek, and Astrid looked him in the eye.

“Keep your appearances up, dear.” She said. “They are all you have left.”

…

It was his birthday again, not long after. It was coldest in Makt this time of year. His rulers sent him to Red London again, and although it was much warmer in Arnes, Holland found himself shivering.

He couldn’t remember how long it had been. There used to be some sort of point in his life that he could say. _There. That was the day I did it. I used to be good before that day. _But now he couldn’t remember. Was he ever anything but the cold, twisted man he is now? His thoughts drifted in a sea of pain, Holland drowning among them.

Perhaps forgetting would make things easier. Yes, that was it. There had never been anything better than this. Things never got worse, and they would never get better. His destiny had been sealed with the mark on his chest.

“Holland!” It was Kell. Holland was so startled, that he stopped for a second, before continuing to slice through his arm. It would be a clever way to keep track of years. One scar for each. Except he got so many more than one.

He had already left Arnes and was now standing before a river at the intersection of two forests. One arm was positioned out over the river, blood slowly starting to drip into the pale water. _It’s not going to be enough_; his mind helpfully supplied. He no longer cared.

“What is it, princeling?” Holland asked. His voice sounded more tired than it should’ve been, so he cleared his throat. _Appearances are all you have left_. He heard Astrid say as if she was right there. Holland cut another line into his skin.

“What are you doing?” Kell questioned, curiosity softening his scowl. Holland bled into the water, and the silence stretched between them.

“My question first,” Holland said, sternly. It was obvious what Holland was doing. He often wondered if he bled enough the river might run again with magic. He often wished he could simply cut himself open and give his blood and his body to the world. He did this to remind himself of what he couldn’t accomplish, of what the Danes would always control.

The rune burned, reminding him that killing himself was not what the Danes wanted. _Good_, he thought at the pain.

“I wanted to tell you something,” Kell said, shifting from one foot to the other. His eyes were so much brighter than Holland’s, lit with life and power. His coat was a light shade of silver, the same color as the magic starved river.

“Happy birthday,” He said, and Holland paused, turning his head to look at Kell, _really_ look at him. Kell always seemed to want something from him that Holland couldn’t give. He wasn’t sure what it was. Friendship, respect, or maybe power. Or perhaps something more. He thought about it sometimes, and without him saying it, he knew Kell did too.

He stayed quiet, until Kell carved into his own hand, drawing a blood sigil on bark. His hands look so used; Holland noticed. And yet, they were probably gentler than Talya’s, or Alox’s, or anyone else’s. For whatever reason, he wanted to find out.

In between one breath and the next, Kell was gone, and Holland slowly took his arm away from the river.

Not yet, he told himself. Not now.

Inexplicably, impossibly, he wanted to live.

…

One year ago, it was his birthday. It was the Danes who told him this. It had been six years, but it felt like eternity. He longed for Talya’s smile, and Vortalis’ laugh. He waited to see if Kell would visit him on his birthday. When he didn’t, Holland scolded himself for dreaming of ridiculous things. All Kell had done for six years was watch him suffer. They all had.

There were more scars on his body than he could count. One of them was to mark his birthday. He couldn’t remember which one.

As a small mercy, Athos whipped him once instead of twice.

Holland didn’t complain.

…

When Holland finishes talking, his voice is hoarse. Athos grins, baring bloodstained teeth. He feels empty, as though Athos had reached in and clawed every secret out of his scarred chest. Maybe he had.

Just when he thinks he has no hope left; they take some more.

“Happy birthday, Holland.” Athos leans in to whisper. Seven years of being their puppet. Talya would’ve called seven a lucky number. Vortalis would’ve called him a lucky man. It was a miracle that he had survived this long. Holland wouldn’t have believed them. Suffering had taught him more than he could have ever learned otherwise. No wonder he was still alive when they weren’t.

Athos stalks over to the metal table to choose another tool. I am art, Holland tries to tell himself. He is a masterpiece, and one day he will be hung up, or he will have bled out, or killed some other way. One day, there will be no more years to count, but he does not know when.

“Compared to me,” Athos says, as he raises the whip. “You are still a good man.”

He hears Talya say it as well. And Alox, and Vortalis, even Kell. The dead come alive to promise him a lie. They all believe in him. 

The problem is, he no longer believes in himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during the events of A Conjuring of Light

He senses the change before he sees it.

Something is different. He feels light and dizzy. There is no pain in his body, no tension in his face, no hurt in his heart. He is just tired. The feeling is maddening and amazing, and he can’t get enough of it. Lying there in bed, he thinks he can see all the tethers being broken. Everyone he’s ever known is leaving him. There goes Talya. Alox, Vortalis, and everyone who has ever caused him pain.

“Come back,” Holland whispers. Emotion bundles in his throat, and for the first time in years, he allows it. He’s not sure he wants them back anymore, but he asks anyway. “I can’t live without you.”

Talya stops for a moment. She is already at the doorway, one transparent hand on the knob. She walks over to him, graceful and beautiful as the day they met.

She touches his cheek, and he leans into it. “You won’t have to,” She says, and Holland knows why.

He’s lost his magic, and soon he’ll lose his life.

…

Kell is the first to visit.

There is quiet, until Kell sits himself down on the side of the bed, near Holland’s feet. Holland’s skin prickles at his closeness, and he sits up straight. Kell doesn’t seem to mind.

“Can you feel that?” Kell asks, the question clearly bubbling up inside him. Holland raises a brow, both confused and completely in the know.

“No,” Holland says, slightly irritated. “In case you’ve forgotten, I don’t have my magic.”

“No, that’s what I’m talking about.” Kell says, and his words are a little too fast, eyes a little too wide. He always shows what he feels even as he tries desperately not to. Somebody should’ve taught him what a poker face is, Holland thinks. But he’s not so sure that would’ve been a good thing.

Kell hasn’t lost his magic, but it’s not what it used to be. It is painful now, something that threatens to consume him the more he uses it. It is not completely gone, but one day it might be.

“I’m talking about the magic. Or the lack of it. It’s just so—” He says the word _amazing _at the same time that Holland says _terrifying_.

There is a moment of shock for the both of them. Holland can’t believe that he’s just admitted to being afraid, and Kell can’t believe that he was the one who heard it.

So much for his poker face.

Holland knows he isn’t afraid of death. Rest after all these years is everything he needs. But he is afraid of being forgotten, of falling apart along with his home. He is afraid that the mark on his chest has prevented him from ever leaving any mark of his own.

“Holland,” Kell says after a long time. He’s looking at Holland like what he is; a man ready to break. Holland looks down at his hands, expecting to see cracks where he’s already splitting apart.

“How do you do it?” Holland asks, suddenly, mouth moving faster than his brain can. “How do you deal with it?”

How does he live with all this hurt, and magic, and guilt inside him without curling in on himself, shutting out the world, and becoming something he’s not? Through all the war, and pain, and bodies, he’s always been himself. He’s always been Kell.

And Holland—who is he? There is a weariness in him that makes it hard to think.

“I have Rhy,” Kell responds, after a long pause. He can see the love in his eyes, even when he only speaks the name. Holland thinks he might have seen those eyes in the mirror once, long ago. “I have Lila.”

“I have no Lila,” Holland answers bitterly. Talya flashes in the line of his vision, but he is not tethered to her any longer. She is not his, and Holland is not hers.

“No,” Kell says. “You have me.”

…

The next time Kell comes around, he brings cake. He also brings company.

Before, Holland didn’t have the time nor interest to get to learn his accomplices. He had hurt them, each of them, in some way that went deeper than a wound. They had no reason to be here now, giving him presents as if he deserved them.

Rhy hands him the cake, flashing white teeth. Before, Holland might’ve wanted to bash his teeth in, but now he can only think of how long it’s been since someone has smiled at him like that.

Before, he wouldn’t have cared about any of this. Before, his hands wouldn’t shake when they held the plate. Before, he wasn’t light, nor was he free.

Before, he could stand.

Holland doesn’t think he has the strength to. Yesterday, he was still able to drag himself to wash up, but now the drowsiness has turned into a bone-deep ache. It’s getting worse, and he is running out of time.

“Happy birthday, Holland.” Kell says. And he thinks, suddenly. _I am going to miss you, Kell Maresh. I have no reason to, but I will._

He glances around the dimly lit room, Lilla Bard standing there with a passive frown on her face, Alucard Emery with his arm linked with Rhy’s, laughing at each other’s jokes, Kell watching him carefully, and himself. _I am going to miss everything_.

He is also missing an opportunity. If he doesn’t sleep now, he will fall asleep later, and he has no idea when he’ll wake. He’s fading fast, and he needs to ground himself. There is not a breath to waste.

Lila steps up to his bed, and her eyes are angry. It is her natural expression, so it reveals nothing. Before, Holland might’ve been able to read her face, but now he’s not so sure. Holland expects her to yell at him, wants it even. He’s been so light, and so strange, and he craves the normality of pain. He expects her to say that he deserves what’s happening to him. She’d be right, of course.

Instead, she takes a knife out from where it hangs on her hip. A beautiful weapon made for ugly kills. He can at once see how the blade is made for her hands. Finally, he can read her eyes.

She loves this knife. And she’s giving it to him.

“You’re a real motherfucker,” She says, and Holland’s mouth curves into something that’s almost a smile. “But you’re a good fighter. You’ll put this to good use.”

They both know that Holland has a few days left and he’s not going to spend any of them fighting. He’ll never use the knife, but he’ll keep it anyway. He knows that despite everything, Lila Bard will miss him too.

They all will.

He hates himself when he’s too exhausted to have the cake. He hates himself when he tells them to leave. He hates himself when Kell lingers at the doorway for a moment, before shutting the light. Holland used to be able to do that from the bed.

He turns on his side, closing his eyes, trying to ignore the fact that he’s sleeping in a slightly larger bed, with a slightly larger heart.

It’s the best birthday of his life.

…

White London is beautiful this time of year.

_Cold, and broken, and beautiful_. Athos would’ve said. _Just like you_.

Holland shakes off the thought, trying instead to focus on putting one foot in front of the other. It’s a simple task that comes off as near impossible. Kell has one arm around his shoulders to keep him upright.

Holland had denied the help at first. The idea of Kell’s arms around him was a vulnerability that he couldn’t afford. But he quickly found that his legs were frail and weak like a fletching’s, and perhaps he needed others more than he had imagined.

When Holland told Kell to take him here, he hadn’t said why. Kell had known better than to ask.

They are at the edge of the town, where the air is coldest, and the people are as well. This is where Holland was born. Home is always beautiful. No matter where it is.

As soon as they are a safe distance from the magic-crazed population, Holland begins to cut.

He takes Lila’s knife out of his holster. He carves line after line into his arm, wincing. The pain is so much sharper now with the loss of his magic. Everything he’s kept buried inside him for so long has been brought to the surface. This is why he almost feels like crying when the blood drips off his arm, and onto the ground like tears.

It isn’t working.

“Holland,” Kell says, worried. He grabs at his arm, but Holland jerks away, almost losing his balance. “What are you doing?”

What he has to. He can’t rest knowing that his world will never sleep.

He cuts deeper, faster. The ground begins to blur, colors merging together. Holland mutters curses at himself. He can’t do it. He can’t save his world. All those years it hadn’t worked and now without magic, he had thought for one foolish second that he might’ve been—that he could really be—

Kell rips the knife away from his numb fingers, burying it deep in an alley wall, even as Holland scrambles for it, cursing and clawing at Kell’s arm. The world spins and his knees buckle, hitting the cold ground. Kell reaches for him, and Holland doesn’t have the energy to push him back.

“Take us home,” Holland whispers, defeated. The words are bitter in his mouth, like betrayal. Red London has never been and will never be his home. Home is the place that you never stop fighting for, even when you cannot fight for yourself.

Holland spent his entire life fighting. But he never won.

…

The next time they go to White London is the last.

Snow falls over the Silver Woods giving everything a broken glass glint. The _Antari_ and the former _Antari_ trudge through the virgin white, leaving tracks wherever they walk.

“Look at that,” Kell tells him, pointing at their footprints. “You’ve left your mark.”

Holland looks. No matter how insignificant the mark is, it’s still there. His story may be ending, but maybe someone will continue it. Maybe someone will be able to do what he couldn’t. What he has spent his entire life trying to. Wouldn’t that be the greatest gift of all?

He doesn’t know anymore.

He left the palace in the morning, before the sun had risen, his goodbyes still hanging on his lips.

Vortalis didn’t believe in goodbyes, and he taught Holland to do the same. Holland’s goodbyes were normally a parting glance or a twist of a knife into a dying man’s chest. Goodbyes were only needed in times of loss, and since loss had become so common, there was no need for goodbyes even then.

But Holland had seen the way the others had glanced at him. He wasn’t sure how to describe the look, but he knew he wouldn’t forget it. For whatever reason it made the word _Anoshe _come to mind. He didn’t know why.

Or maybe he did.

The two of them don’t talk, and their silence fills the space. He’s leaning almost entirely on Kell, one of his legs dragging in the snow. Kell isn't bothered. His eyes are faraway, distant.

He wonders what Kell is thinking about, but the answer is obvious. He had heard the tremble in his voice as he said _As Travars_, opening a portal that only one of them would return from. Kell, with that reckless hope that once fueled Holland as well, still wants to save him. He doesn’t understand that there isn’t anything left to save.

There’s nothing between the two of them. Nothing but the silence. But perhaps, there could’ve been. It is because of this thought, that when Kell reaches over to entwine their fingers, he allows it.

(His hand is softer than Talya’s.)

Holland holds on until he has to let go.

…

In the end, he is alone.

But he is not truly on his own, he knows this now. He has the sun, and the sky, and the whole world right at his fingertips. He left the Maresh palace with nothing and ended up gaining everything.

Peace is everything.

He stands in the middle of a clearing in the forest, head tilted up towards the sky, until it feels like he’s floating. And finally, it feels as though the last tether has been broken, and for once, he’s the one who gets to leave, and who gets to choose how.

He doesn’t realize that he’s not floating, until he feels the snow underneath his hands, and realizes that he’s fallen. He lays there for a moment, in the shade of one of the largest trees he’s ever seen and begins to laugh.

It’s a hoarse, almost delirious laugh, and he thinks someone might’ve been glad to hear it, but he’s too tired to remember who.

He’s so tired.

He is tired of these woods, of this London, of that London, of the home he’s spent his whole life trying to save, of the world, the sky, the stars, his years of suffering, years and years of it, his strength, his losses, his differences, the smell of roses and ash and metal, a woman who never loved him, a brother who tried to kill him, a king he would’ve killed for, magic and sweat and blood, and bodies and people, and this and that, and life itself.

He closes his eyes and tries to feel the floating instead of seeing it. And this time he knows it’s happening, because he can no longer feel the ground, the tree, or himself. But as he starts to slip away, he thinks he can feel—just for the briefest moment—the sense of the air beginning to warm. All at once, he is no longer cold.

It is the greatest gift of all.

**Author's Note:**

> It probably wasn't a good idea to start my career on Ao3 by writing about Holland's tragic past, but I did it anyway. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.  
Fun fact: Holland's birthday is on January fifteenth. Take a moment to remember him when the day comes.


End file.
